


sunlight on the surface of the sea

by stifledlaughter



Category: Professor Marston and the Wonder Women (2017)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Impact Play, Multi, Polyamory, Rope Bondage, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stifledlaughter/pseuds/stifledlaughter
Summary: Olive was always the first to wake.One would assume that perhaps Bill would, his internal clock demanding he rise early for classes as a professor, despite that no longer being his profession. Or maybe Elizabeth, crackling full of starfire, unable to stay still even in the depths of slumber.But no, it’s Olive, the dawn coming through their curtains like a silent bell, rousing her from sleep every morning.
Relationships: Olive Byrne/Elizabeth Marston/William Marston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	sunlight on the surface of the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tawryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawryn/gifts).



> Hello, Yuletide recipient! I hope you like this - it is my first Yuletide and I am very excited to have been assigned this piece! Several moments in this piece were taken from my direct experiences of being in a triad, and were so much fun to write.  
> As a poly/kinky person, this movie meant so much to me. I had never seen poly done with such care in a mainstream piece of media, and I hope my appreciation of the film shows here.

_dawn_

Olive was always the first to wake.

One would assume that perhaps Bill would, his internal clock demanding he rise early for classes as a professor, despite that no longer being his profession. Or maybe Elizabeth, crackling full of starfire, unable to stay still even in the depths of slumber.

But no, it’s Olive, the dawn coming through their curtains like a silent bell, rousing her from sleep every morning.

When it was winter, she rose later, and adjusted her schedule accordingly. Thankfully, her first son took after her in that regard, which made for slightly easier child rearing. Elizabeth’s children, on the other hand, were a bit more anarchical in terms of adherence to time, and thus her journey of following the sun to wakefulness was often disrupted.

Not that she truly begrudged it, except in those muddled moments of blearily sipping coffee at 3am while rocking a dark-haired, screaming child to sleep. It was the rite of mothers that connected her throughout the ages to every woman before her who had ever been awake in the dark, willing the fists-and-feet bundle in her arms to _please for the love of God, go to sleep._

However, this morning, it was peaceful. The children were either still at rest or occupying themselves with quiet mischief, but either way, all was still.

Olive had mastered the expert move of sliding out of bed without rousing either of her partners, an endeavor that required a slight amount of core strength and a lot of delicate maneuvering to not dismount right on top of someone’s shin.

She slipped through quietly to softly head down the stairs to the kitchen. She started the coffee maker with practiced ease, arranging the porcelain cream and sugar containers gently on the counter so as not to clink them loudly.

Sometimes Olive would come downstairs to see one of their children, bright-eyed, mouth already halfway open to demand breakfast, play, or simply attention. She would- and often did- give all three, but this morning, she was pleased to have the quiet break of dawn to herself.

She heated the water for the coffee and arranged the grounds in the filter section of the coffee pot. As the water heated on the stove, she looked out the window. The autumn morning was not yet chill enough to cast a frost over their lawn, but the bright orange and yellow sunrise highlighted the piles of leaves that Bill and their eldest son had raked together. Their younger ones had swiftly leaped in after and re-scattered the leaves, but after one of them discovered a large wolf spider merrily perched on his shoulder, they had quickly abandoned their playtime. Elizabeth and Olive had then dutifully checked over the children for spiders and declared them spider-free, much to everyone’s collective relief.

Olive made a mental note to remind her eldest to re-rake the piles, as they had been forgotten in the panic over the spider. It would do him good, she mused as she poured the boiling water over the grounds, to teach him the importance of continued maintenance. That taking care of something was a long, slow, diligent process, not all done at once.

The earthy, dark aroma of the coffee greeted her as the water filtered through the grounds, and she made the first cup for herself (splash of cream in her favorite mug, white with a green streak through the middle). She sipped, savoring the slight burn on her tongue, as Elizabeth’s cup filtered through (black coffee in a Radcliffe mug, nary a touch of cream or sugar.) Olive retrieved the serving tray from the cabinet as Bill’s coffee was topping off (elegant blue mug, filled with more cream and sugar than he would dare admit to his doctor).

Carefully placing the cups on the tray, she expertly lifted it and carried it up the stairs, nudging the door open with her foot as she was greeted by the sight of her partners legs entwined under the blanket, arms flung about as if they were in some sort of night ballet and then struck by exhaustion, falling asleep on their marks.

She passed through the threshold of the doorway, placing the tray down on the nightstand, and, as the sun had greeted her with its light, Olive draped herself over the rousing bodies of her lovers to bid them good morning.

_mid-morning_

“Are you excited to spend the day with the Williamsons, kids?”

“We’re going to play baseball! The whole neighborhood will be there. Sammy even says he’s got a new bat to show us.”

“Be careful where he swings that, honey, I don’t trust that boy’s aim, given what happened at the last practice.”

“Thank God for helmets, huh, kids?”

“Bill, don’t be so lighthearted about it-”

“Are you sure you can’t come to the game, Mama, Papa, Auntie Olive?”

“I’m afraid not, sweetie, we promised our friends we’d help them out today. It’s good to keep your friends’ promises.”

“Auntie Olive, more apple juice, please?”

“Of course, love. And everyone, don’t forget, laundry in the baskets by the time Mrs. Williamson picks you up, or else you won’t have clean underwear for a week!”

“Elizabeth, do you have our bag for this afternoon packed?”

“I have it packed as I’d like it, you’d best check if it’s got what you’d want in it. I’m not _your_ damn secretary.”

“So prickly, even this early in the morning?”

“It’s ten a.m, the prickly hours have been well underway since seven.”

_afternoon_

As always, Charles greeted her warmly as she entered the lingerie shop. Olive per usual trailed behind the others, entering as if she came in by happenstance after the (beautiful, smartly dressed, wickedly intelligent) couple that had come from the same direction as her.

One could not be too careful.

“Miss Olive,” he said, his accent lilting over the _L_ in her name with flourish. “A delight, as always, to have you here with us. Allow me to lead you to the back room.” He gracefully took her proffered arm and stepped behind the curtain with her.

It was always with gentle wonder that she crossed the curtain. She had never imagined that there was a world like this - organized workshops found by secret whisperings that led through a network of like-minded individuals who felt the draw to pleasure like a rope tugging them along by their wrists.

_Perverts. Devotees. Sinners._

How odd, the names given to those who she now simply called _friends._

 _Will there be others after us?_ she wondered as she waved at the other regulars on her way to join Elizabeth and Bill who were setting up on stage. _Will they have to skulk about in the shadows too? Or will they be able to see each other in the sunlight and talk openly about these things?_

She often wondered about others who were in their situation. While most of the other regulars were married in two-person couples, there were no other triads like them. It was still the most scandalous arrangement they’d heard of in their circles, but in a way, since everyone who entered this room had something to hide, it was simply accepted with an understanding nod.

Perhaps there would be a time when three people could hold hands in the street. Three parents playing in the park with their children, a soft kiss for each lover as they watched their littles ones from a park bench. Saying to someone, “My wife’s husband” aloud in the sunlight with a smile on her face.

It was nice to think that someone, someday, could have that. Even if it couldn’t be them.

There were a few newcomers this time around. Two were clearly a couple, nervously glancing about while speaking in hushed tones to the woman modeling a cinched white corset and supple leather boots.

 _It’s alright,_ Olive thought to them as the couple spoke in a way that betrayed how anxious they were. _You’re safe here._

For years they had been coming to these Saturday afternoon workshops, sometimes to learn new ways to play with each other, other days serving as examples. Today was a day when she was to be a part of a demonstration. 

This time, she was a model for a new outfit that had come in. Shimmery blue plastic scales cupped her breasts, pushing them up as a shining green tail-like skirt tightly cinched her legs together. She could not run away if she wanted to, or escape from the ropes that were being lashed around her body.

“ _Modèle”_ is what Charles called Olive as she laid on the floor, feeling the ropes deliciously pulling tightly around her, her wife’s nimble hands pressing the hemp hard enough to leave ripples of soft red marks on her skin.

“A captured mermaid, if you will,” said Charles to the audience, his accent dripping luxuriously over the words as Elizabeth, who had grown quite skilled in the ways of rope, wrestled Olive to the ground, careful to not damage the clothes.

However, Olive’s body was definitely available to be roughed up. Elizabeth ground Olive’s arm into the floor below, knowing what parts of her arm were still bruised from last night’s play, and Olive thrashed underneath her, groaning in a burst of pleasure and pain.

 _I am the mermaid tied to the front of a ship,_ she thought hazily as the rope curled around her chest and snugly bound her breasts. _I am met by harsh waves and howling winds. And yet I do not break._

The wooden floor beneath her could have been a deck. Was she captured by pirates or Navy folk? Would they press her face into the wood there, make her submit, or would they be more forceful, beating her into compliance?

It was always a game within her, to take as much as she could. Submission meant kneeling, offering the nape of her neck to a lovingly sharpened blade, but it did not mean bending to just anything.

“And if the mermaid should struggle,” said Charles, now handing over a beautiful cane to Elizabeth, who took it with a predatory grin. “There are ways to tame her.”

_Swish. Snap!_

Olive shuddered as the first blow hit, no warm up, just a shock of pain, and she shook at the first strike, as she always did. Sometimes she was given the luxury of a warm up, and other times, not.

Her skin stinging, she struggled, kicking out despite the binds of the skirt and rope. Olive rolled over and managed to slam her shoulder into Elizabeth’s shin, causing her wife to buckle slightly.

Another blow landed, this one on her outer calf, and Olive yelped out, her cry splitting the air. Elizabeth smirked and pressed the end of the crop against her wife’s lips, pressing them shut.

“Silence.”

Olive’s face grew warm, and she squirmed, the skirt pressing her thighs together to rub in the most delightful way. But she dutifully kept her jaw shut, holding the moan inside her throat as she watched her wife, smartly dressed in a dark brown cardigan and cream skirt, pull Olive up to lay over her knees. For a brief moment, Olive had an errant fantasy of reenacting the sorority spanking scene she’d participated in, but perhaps this time as a naughty student and strict professor.

But that wasn’t the scenario here, and thus she let herself fall back into who she was supposed to be- captured mermaid, body open to the whims of her captor aboard the deck of a ship.

The cane lashed against her, the sting biting into her skin in the most exquisite of agonies. Olive felt like she was being submerged, every strike sending her deeper and deeper into the depths of the ocean.

“When lost at sea with a mermaid,” quipped Charles as he handed Elizabeth a broad, short paddle, taking the cane from her. “It is best to have an oar.”

After stroking over Olive’s reddened skin, Elizabeth began to swat her wife with broad, flat strokes, the echoes of the whacks ringing in Olive’s ears as she felt her whole body flush, and she looked up to see Bill’s eyes, hungry and alight with desire, staring her down. His eyes then flicked up to Elizabeth, who was holding herself elegantly straight-backed as she administered the blows.

Fascinating, to see love, want, and arousal all flashing over his face. Olive felt the haze of endorphins run over her body as the pain crescendoed through her, and she gasped for permission, hoping Elizabeth heard her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elizabeth smirk, and then heard, “Hm... no,” and swatted even harder.

Olive clenched her legs together and breathed out, feeling like she was drowning, caught in the ropes, her lungs filling with this overwhelming need that oxygen could not suffice to supplement. She clawed at the air, writhing on Elizabeth’s lap as she nearly succeeded in rolling off. But Elizabeth swiftly snatched up Olive by the waist and yanked her back on her lap, digging her nails into Olive’s already bruised arms as she did so.

“As if I’d let you escape,” she said lowly, her voice stern and aloof. She delivered more blows until Olive was tearing up, not even remembering that there were audience members outside of her husband watching this. If she had, she might have had some shame ( _but oh, doesn’t that make it more delicious?_ ) as she whimpered, “Please, please, please let me-”

“Come,” murmured Elizabeth, and Olive cried out, shaking and thrashing in her binds, the waves cresting over her as she was tied to the front of the ship, taking them but not breaking under them.

She threw her head back, submerging herself in the feeling of lightness as her lungs expanded, gasping like the first breath above the water, warmed by the sunlight on the surface of the sea.

_evening_

The children were not due to be back until later that evening, which was for the best, as when they arrived back home, the proof copies of next month’s Wonder Woman were on their doorstep.

It wasn’t an issue that the comics were there - after all, the children had read issues of Wonder Woman before - but the part the wives most enjoyed was looking through the copies and gleefully identifying particular inspirations that Bill had thought about when writing the script. If the house was empty of little ears, they happily did so on the couch, preferably with alcoholic drinks of choice in their hands.

“That’s clearly me from our Easter shenanigans,” said Olive, pointing at a woman who was tied to a chair, a gag stuffed in her mouth as a villain laughed over her. “See? That woman’s even wearing the same blouse that I was - three buttons, lace on the scoop neck, showing off my collarbone.”

“A lovely collarbone at that,” said Bill, leaning over and nipping at it. She laughed and nearly spilled her martini in her effort to swat him. She winced slightly as she settled back into her couch cushion, her skin delightfully bruised and tender. She’d be feeling it for days.

She relished the thought.

“Oh that is _clearly_ meant to be me on top of you!” said Elizabeth, motioning towards a large panel where Woman Woman had tied up a man with her Lasso of Truth and was leaning forward, pressing her boot into his chest. “By God, do I actually look that angry when I’m in charge?”

“You look positively evil, and for that I love you,” said Bill, leaning up to kiss her. Olive sneaked a hand under his gin and tonic, making sure it didn’t tip as Elizabeth forwent looking at the panel to press her lips against her husband’s.

“And what do you think of me, when I am above you, crushing the air out of your chest, hm?” asked Elizabeth, turning her gaze to Olive.

“You’re magnificent,” murmured Olive as she reached up and pulled her wife in to kiss her as well.

They passed several more minutes spotting more direct takes from their own lives, ribbing on Bill as he exclaimed insistently, “It’s about the _psychology_!” and laughing, their voices getting louder as their drink levels got lower.

Olive, noticing that their snack tray was running low, extracted herself from the tangled mess of limbs, once again utilizing her sneaking skills to not disturb anyone or spill her drink as she headed to the kitchen. She set to work slicing more cheese, the methodical thunk of knife on the cutting board soothing.

She at one point, however, reached an impasse- she could choose either the soppressata or capocollo sausage to compliment the sharp cheeses. Both satisfied her, so it was up to them.

Olive leaned around the corner to the living room, calling out, “My love?”

“Yes?” they both chimed back, and her chest felt tight with all of the happiness contained inside it, warmed by the sunlight of their laughter.


End file.
